I had been in peculiar situations, a few more than I ever bargained for. Excepting Shira, I’d have been just as glad to do without them. Now here was the Horse Master of the Bashi-Bazouks, himself big as a horse, who had called me dear friend, earnestly talking about a ransom. As if I were a prize catch.
This would have been bad enough. What made it worse was that everyone else was having a marvelous time.
The dancing had stopped. The revelers, of one accord, began singing, in natural harmony, what must have been their old, familiar songs. Very wild and beautiful they were; merry and melancholy both at once.
And all this going on while Bashir was inquiring what I was worth, as matter-of-fact as reckoning the price a pack mule would fetch.
“You’re joking,” I said.
“Bashir not joke.”
No, I guessed he didn’t. The hairs at the back of my neck started rising. Meantime, with night coming on, torches were being lit. Some of the young men had brought out their horses. They galloped around, standing with one foot on their saddles, doing backflips and somersaults while going full tilt, springing to the ground, running a few paces beside their mounts, then leaping astride again. They were amazingly skillful; despite my present circumstances, I couldn’t help but marvel at them. The onlookers cheered and whistled through their teeth. Shira, Salamon, and Baksheesh were somewhere in the crowd, happily unaware of my predicament, probably cheering, too.
Was there, I wondered, any way we could simply cut and run? Our animals were—where? Penned among the livestock? Without them, we had no chance. With them, we had no chance. The horsemen would have ridden us down before we got clear of the camp.
Bashir was not as fuddled as he had seemed. He kept a very clear eye on me. So I tried speaking quietly and reasonably, no doubt my first mistake.
“Bashir,” I said, “you offered us hospitality. Is this the hospitality of the Bashi-Bazouks?”
“Hospitality accepted must be returned equal measure. Is ancient custom.”
I was beginning to think not too highly of ancient custom. It reminded me of Messire Maldonato, our family lawyer.
“You give feast in exchange?” Bashir said. “Nah, that you cannot. So what else?”
“My heartfelt thanks?” I suggested.
“Bashir take that anyway,” he said. “From you, money is easiest. Never worry. No extra ransom, no charge for companions. Bashir is openhanded. So, you be same.”
“Gladly,” I said, “but there’s no way I can repay you enough to make up for all the good things you’ve given us. I have nothing like that amount.”
“Of course not. Bashir understands.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. I told him I was happy he saw things my way.
Then he added: “You, Crown Prince. Father, King. Rich king, yes? Was ever such thing as poor one? He pays for you.”
“I’m sure he would,” I said, “but his kingdom is far away. Too far for word ever to reach him.”
“Is nothing. Bashir sends best galloper.”
My reasonable discussion was only setting us at loggerheads. A picture irresistibly popped into my head. A BashiBazouk horseman, big woolly hat, shaggy vest, jingling baubles and all, charging into Uncle Evariste’s counting room, demanding a fortune to regain his son—not even his son, but the family chooch.
“Bashir,” I said, with what I hoped was convincing regret, “I’m sorry. It won’t do. It will take too long. It could be years—”
“So?” Instead of giving up his impossible scheme, he persisted. “How long? Who cares? No hurry. You live with Bashi-Bazouks. Sing, dance, ride horses. Be happy. Raise family.”
“No,” I said, firmly and flatly, so there would be no mistaking my determination. “I can’t do that. I won’t.”
“You will.” He glowered at me. “Bashir has spoken. No one goes against word of Horse Master. That is custom. That is law.”
A dangerous glint came into his eyes. His jaw was set. I knew he wouldn’t budge. I had to try another way.
“All right, I’ll stay here,” I said, while he nodded happily. “But you let the others go.”
This was not so much a noble gesture as a practical one. If it came to that, yes, I’d have given my life for Shira. Though, if at all possible, I would have preferred not to. I would rather be alive with her than dead without her. The simple reality: If I stayed behind, I stood a better chance of escaping on my own, and finding her later.
Bashir chewed his beard. He looked slightly less menacing for a moment. But only for a moment.
“Nah, nah. Bashir has no heart to keep you from companions, least of all from Kirkassi girl. Lovers, not so?” He nodded. “Yes. Bashir sees what he sees. Settled, then. As Bashir wills.”
We were at the end of it. I had held back one last thing, reluctant even now to tell him.
“There is no crown—” I began.
“What, you wear hat?”
“No crown. No prince. No ransom. There will never be a ransom,” I said. “I’m what you see. Nothing more.”
Bashir jolted back. He sucked in a long breath. When he blew it out again, it seemed to come from the soles of his feet, winding up through the rest of him as part groan, part growl.
“Is bad,” he finally said. “Very, very bad. Your servant— truth not in him. But had he no better sense than play false with Bashi-Bazouks? Worse, with Bashir himself?”
“For all he knew, you meant to rob us,” I hurried to explain. “He was only protecting me. A lie? Yes, but such a small one. In Ferenghi-Land, we do it all the time.”
“Not in Ferenghi-Land now.” Bashir glared. “With BashiBazouks. You are liar.
“Servant speaks for master,” he went on. “Master must answer for what servant does. Servant and master are one. If servant lying, same as you lying. That is ancient code.”
I wished he would stop flinging ancient codes at me. “Bashir,” I said, “Bashi-Bazouks are horse dealers. Do you mean to tell me you don’t bend the truth from time to time?”
“Only with gorgios. And who counts gorgios? Not speaking truth is mortal insult.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” I said. “But now I’ve told you the truth.”
“Have you?” Bashir laid a shrewd eye on me, and frowned so deeply his face folded in on itself. “Maybe you take Bashir for fool? Maybe you lie now. So not pay ransom. Maybe really Crown Prince after all.
“Makes no difference,” he went on. “One way or other, at heart of matter is lie. Big, big offense. One of worst. Against law, against custom, against honor.”
I was caught in a cleft stick and couldn’t wiggle out of it. “Let us go our way. No hard feelings. All I can do is beg forgiveness.”
“Not possible,” he said. “Insult so big can only be washed out.”
“Then I’ll gladly wash it out,” I said. “How?”
“With blood,” he said. “Yours. Or mine. You offend Bashir, you fight Bashir. To death.”
I don’t know if I turned pea-green or ash-white.
Bashir had his high spirits back again. He could just as well have been looking forward to another feast. He gave me a good-natured slap on the back that would have shaken my bones if they hadn’t been shaking already.
“Tomorrow we fight. Till one of us be dead,” he said cheerily. “Tonight, sleep good. Peace be upon you.”